


Anything To Not Be Bored

by 221Bme



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Author Is Sleep Deprived, Before John, Boredom, Depression, Desperate Sherlock Holmes, Desperation, Gen, Hungry Sherlock, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt Sherlock, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Nervous Sherlock, No Smut, Secrets, Sherlock Can't Sleep, Sherlock's Past, Sherlock-centric, Sleep Deprivation, Sleepy Sherlock, Suicidal Sherlock, Suicidal Thoughts, Tired Sherlock, Walking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-07
Updated: 2017-09-07
Packaged: 2018-12-25 00:46:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12024549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221Bme/pseuds/221Bme
Summary: This is my little take on what Sherlock's life may have been like before John, in the time leading up to the point when he and John met.Warning: talk of suicidal thoughts.





	Anything To Not Be Bored

"Accidental electrocution…" Sherlock's mumbled words were barely loud enough for even himself to hear, as he raised his head to glance up at the full moon hanging over the London skyline above him.

His footsteps were quick and sharp on the pavement, even if he wasn't going anywhere in particular.

_Just for the sake of moving._

It didn't matter that it was close to 3 O'clock in the morning. His mind was moving too fast for his body to stay still.

_Not an uncommon occurrence._

"Drowning… asphyxiation… _overdose..._ " He murmured under his breath again, seeming to find the last one the most suitable.

_Mycroft might still suspect, but he would never be_ _**sure** _ _that it hadn't been an accident._

But that wasn't  ** _good enough…_**

_There had to be some way to do it without the elder Holmes ever realising that it had been on purpose._

It was all just a game… He'd been over and over it in his head time and again, challenging himself to come up with a way in which he could pull it off successfully. Not an intention, just a mental challenge. Just a game…

Why he'd settled on  _this_ as a challenge, specifically, he'd never really answered for himself.

No reason to.

The chill in the air had long since numbed his cheeks, but he hardly even noticed. He shoved his cold hands back into his coat pockets and let his eyes scan the dimly lit street ahead of him.

It occurred to him, vaguely, that the challenge was hardly even holding his attention anymore, but his mind kept bringing it up, especially on long walks like this.

" _Bored…_ " The word fell from his lips for what felt like the hundredth time that week.

It scratched at every inch of his skin… clawed at his mind… The ennui felt as if it had come alive and was suffocating him, agonizingly, almost every day…

Sherlock was  _so_   ** _bored…_**

Every case he could get from DI Lestrade was a welcome relief—a quick gasp of fresh air… But then it always ended, and he was left waiting for the next…

_That waiting seemed to be getting more and more excruciating._

Almost nothing was holding his interest very long, these days… And Sherlock was beginning to find himself weighing the worth of things in his mind, all while he flung himself into every situation and opportunity he got with a feverish commitment and energy that even he himself recognised was starting to seem unhinged.

He'd always been like that, to a certain degree. But now it was excessive…

_Not like he could stop._

_Nothing helped…_

No doubt on the outside he appeared okay, rejoicing over every little case and relishing the chances to engage in snappy, quick-witted bouts of mockery with those around him.

A cold, hollow ache in his stomach brought him back to the present for just a second, reminding him that it had been days since he'd stopped to eat.  _Why should he?_  But then it was gone again, and he turned his attention back to more pressing topics, like whether or not Lestrade was going to have to come to him for that recent kidnapping case he'd read about.

_God, he hoped so…_

Lack of sleep had tied dizzying chains around him that continually tried to drag him down to the cold, damp pavement below, but he fought the feeling,  _refusing_ to give in.

The only way Sherlock could sleep very well these days was if he was really, properly exhausted. He was absolutely shattered now, but for whatever reason he still couldn't talk himself into slowing down…

_Oh well…_

"Hit by a bus…" He mumbled as the thought struck him, turning his head just a little to check the street he was about to cross for traffic.

_Mycroft knew he was too calculated for that…_

He hadn't  _really_  looked when he'd checked, just now…

_Probability of an absence of oncoming traffic at the given moment… 74%._

Sherlock didn't hesitated and stepped off the curb and into the street.

He let out a quiet sigh when he reached the other side without incident, though even he wasn't sure what the emotion behind it was. The tiny spike of adrenaline at the thought that he could have been so easily killed soon dissipated, leaving him tired and cold once again.

**_Boring…_ **

The sun was nearly completely risen… He must have been walking for much longer than he'd realised…

A quick glance at his watch told him that yes, it was now nearing 6:30 in the morning. And he was almost at the New Scotland Yard office building…

_Funny… His feet must have brought him automatically…_

A familiar figure exiting a coffee shop up ahead caught his eye, and he quickly scanned him for details.

Lestrade was holding a coffee cup, and hadn't noticed him yet. His shaving job looked a little sub-standard, but his hair was clean and his clothes were ironed, so it most likely wasn't trouble at home…

"They're on sale at Tesco." Sherlock spoke as soon as they were close enough, and Lestrade jumped a little bit.

"Jesus, Sherlock—It's too early for this...  _Don't do that to me..._ " The DI shook his head tiredly as he got his breath back again.

Sherlock just smiled. "Pack of four, for eight pounds."

"What…?"

"Lightbulbs. The one in your bathroom went out this morning, I know."

"You know, if I didn't know you that would make you sound like some horrifying stalker. I  _do_  know you, and that  _still_  makes you sound like some horrifying stalker... " Lestrade raised the cup to his lips and took a careful sip. "…Thanks, by the way. Lightbulbs are so expensive…"

"Mm…" Sherlock nodded, glancing up at the building as the sun began to glare off its many windows.

"Any plans today?"

"Visiting the mortuary at Bart's again… Something I want to study concerning the nature of human bruising..."

"Ah—" Lestrade held up the coffee cup, as if it were a protective amulet. "No talk about studying anything in a mortuary until I've finished my coffee. Had enough of that recently…"

Sherlock just rolled his eyes a little bit. "I'm looking to find a flatshare…"

"Really? Thought you had somewhere yourself."

"I do… But I want to be closer. And besides…" He shrugged. "The upstairs neighbours never  _shut up._ "

_He didn't really need a flatshare._

He probably could have got it on his own, especially with the special deal Mrs. Hudson was giving him.

The truth was, a flatshare just sounded… different.

_Interesting._

_New._

He didn't hold out much hope of finding one, though… who in their right mind would want to share a flat with  _him,_  anyway? It might end up horribly if he did, and honestly it did make him very slightly tense—but at this point, he'd try anything.

_Anything to not be bored._

And he was willing to try this… one more opportunity for something good.

_This very last chance._

_Before he tried something else._


End file.
